Friendship was the secret bonus of these lessons—and truly the best part, though Lillian never advertised that. Husbands wouldn’t authorize their wives’ participation if they didn’t see a visible benefit to the family. At least, Peter wouldn’t have. But if friendships were a side effect of learning how to be a better wife, so much the better.
She considered Ruth. The girl was unsettling, somehow. Her college education still so fresh.
Her own college friends had fallen away when Lillian married Peter. Her grandparents were delighted. After all, they’d agreed to her going to college primarily so that she would get an M.R.S.—a Mrs. in front of her name. That hadn’t been Lillian’s goal initially—she’d wanted to get away from home, to mix with other young people and study. She had hoped to find some kind of vocation.
That vocation had morphed into her becoming an ideal wife, one whose suburban friends would watch a toddler while she napped, or while she organized and alphabetized bookshelves and spice racks. They would offer honest criticism about the shape of her behind in a particular outfit too, if she asked, though she had never needed to worry about that. She kept herself trim for Peter.
She had thought, when she became engaged, that being a wife and, later, mother would be enough to make her happy.
She understood the value of female camaraderie but, with the exception of Shirley’s friendship, Lillian considered herself a collector of acquaintances.
Lillian had never been trained to perform kitchen chores and found them tiresome—one of the many ways she differed from the mother she remembered. So she cut the radish roses and carrot swirls she’d seen in the Ladies’ Home Journal with care as she considered Harriet—apparently the most natural housewife Lillian had met. Ready to devote her time and energy to her future home life and husband’s career before she even said “I do.” Harriet would learn soon enough that being a perfect wife wasn’t as easy as it looked.
Maybe Lillian should tell her to get out while she could.
She slapped a hand over her open mouth as if she’d spoken aloud. What an awful thing to even contemplate! Misgivings were so unappetizing. Even if they were true.
If only someone had told her that housewifery and motherhood could be not only dull, but stressful. So much time and effort devoted to beauty and the social mandates. Not even charge accounts around town and Sunny doing the cleaning and cooking could make up for the nagging feeling that something was missing.
Lillian sure didn’t cover that in her lessons.
To the neighbors, to family, even to wives who should have known better, life fit Lillian like a beautiful dress all the girls envied—but it itched to high heaven underneath.
No one fathomed, not even Peter, that for several years, on nights prior to hosting his family or colleagues, Lillian writhed in sweat, lying awake, sometimes unable to catch her breath. The pressure of helping Peter remember his manners, his meetings, his clients’ names. Always choosing the right ties and pocket squares for him, in addition to her own wardrobe of flattering, appropriate dresses and separates, required the endurance of an Olympian. It was fun at first. Soon, though, a chore.
She was obliged to learn about current events and politics in case Peter hadn’t brushed up—which she’d thought initially would be an interesting challenge. It turned out to be pointless because no one talked to her about those topics. Nor did they discuss these subjects in her presence. News and politics were not appropriate subjects for a woman.
Yet Peter was impressive as he repeated the topics and names he’d co-opted from Lillian. These victories were now void of joy. And that void was growing.
As a student—even as a newlywed—she had believed she could do anything. She opened the oven and basted the roast. See? She’d learned to cook a little, but that was no remedy for boredom. So why not talk to Peter about her dissatisfaction—her need for an interest beyond the home and family? Take the leap?
Lillian would work Peter with a strategy he’d never see coming. The girls were gone. She’d surprise him with midweek romance. No man could resist that.
She set the dining room table for two, displaying her mastery over china, crystal, silver, and taper candles. She placed them atop a crisp ivory linen tablecloth and folded the matching napkins into swans for a bit of whimsy.
Lillian took one last look and straightened the tablecloth. She’d set their places catty-corner from one another—Peter’s at the head of the table and hers to his left, instead of at opposite ends of the table as was customary.
She sighed. There was a good chance Peter wouldn’t notice any of it. Not the dress, the meal, the intimate place settings, or the upcoming greeting. And the opportunity to broach the subject she needed to talk about would disappear.
An elegant weeknight display for just the two of them was an experiment. Heck, an experiment was exciting, wasn’t it? She and Peter followed a rigid schedule, and this kind of dinner wasn’t on it.
Lillian believed that shining within the confines of routine made her reliable, and that’s what people wanted and expected. But perhaps that only made her boring. Still, changes in the family’s practice were not hers to make. Were they?
She could talk to Peter—he was a kind man, if a bit predictable. Wasn’t that what she loved about him? Sound. Reliable. Like her. Or was that boring too? Surely not!
She banished negative thoughts. Peter was a fine husband. A good man, if unimaginative. She wasn’t frightened of him, but of her own potential disappointment. What if she expressed her desire for change and Peter didn’t heed it?
He ran a company he loved. His perfect wife was at his beck and call. If he was pleased by tonight’s romantic surprise, she would address her other thoughts. They would discuss her admittedly vague ideas for finding a worthwhile project, and he could help her sort through them. Clarifying her thoughts was almost impossible on her own. They just kept spinning around her head.
She smoothed the tablecloth one last time.
If only Ruth hadn’t riled her so, showing Lillian that she should have tried to do more, volunteer more, contribute more to the world at large—all within the status quo—without forgoing any of Peter’s expectations.
Well-behaved wives didn’t make a mess out of an already tidy life.
Then again, perhaps well-behaved was overrated.
Her thoughts roiled in her head until a momentary thrill buzzed through her—the manifestation of this imagined agency, this pretend control—only to give way to doubts again.
The popular idea that behind every successful man was a strong woman implied that the woman was pulling some strings. But her jurisdiction over Peter was never certain, like that time Lillian had deliberately withheld the name of his client’s wife, when of course she knew it. He’d looked at her, his eyebrows raised, and she’d shrugged. She’d wanted him to pull the name out of his own hat instead of hers, or at least to acknowledge at some point how much he needed her.
Peter had simply turned around, flashed his bright smile, and told the woman she looked taller, younger, thinner, and smarter than the last time they’d met. Lillian knew darn well he hadn’t a clue what her name was. Later, Lillian’s tiny rebellion had dissolved into guilt—she had let him down, and in doing so, had let herself down. Meanwhile, Peter gave every appearance of remaining completely at ease and oblivious to her mutiny.